


The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters

by betterrecieved



Series: Assassin-Verse [8]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus Series RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:10:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1393960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betterrecieved/pseuds/betterrecieved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slight Daddy!kink and murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venomedveins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomedveins/gifts), [crazzzedope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazzzedope/gifts).



The tiny irritant of cold night air against his t-shirt helps ground Dan, helps remind him that all it takes is one inhale too soon and he’s shooting into thin air.

But another small, shivering irritant with a loudly rumbling stomach winds its arm around his middle.

All it takes from forty stories up is a hair’s breadth mistake and Dan’ll score a hit on a worthless bystander, spook the whole boardroom and lose his money and maybe his head, if he wasn’t contracting for Liam - this is a hit that counts for a lot.

But Tobek and Merrells’ associates are too busy speaking in thinly veiled code, making sure nobody’s wearing a wire. Their rented boardroom is neutral ground, supposedly a secret, but nobody can keep secrets with so many agendas on the line. He’s got time to do this right.

It gets windy on top of buildings, a whole other atmosphere from the calm ground wind below. Dan considers and then stands upright. He has time for a lecture.

"Told you to wear a coat and no, my hoodie doesn’t count." It doesn’t count because the sleeves are about a foot too long, and no matter how much Pana rolls them up, they come unfurled and cover his hands. 

"But it smells like you, Daddy," Pana yawns. And Dan can kill a man in countless ways, but he doesn’t have a single defense against those fawn eyes and Pana shivering and hugging tightly to himself and Daddy.

Dan shrugs out of his unzipped leather jacket, puts it around Pana’s shoulders. 

"I’m so hungry," Pana sighs as he snuggles into Dan’s jacket, the world’s most adorable contract killer in training. "Can’t I eat these chips I brought? And this sandwich? And this soda…"

And now Dan gets the other reason why Pana preferred Dan’s pockets. ”Just eat quietly and don’t take my focus off the mark. It’s not your first time, baby. You might be hungry and cold but you still have to let me focus and do the job.”

"OK."

"Okay." 

The first crunch of potato chips is like planets smashing into each others’ orbits, and Dan nearly jolts his rifle out of place.

"Where’s the mark?" Dan asks; he has his suspicions about where Pana’s attentions are right now.

"In that room," Pana points vaguely. "I think in the middle."

"You’re throwing me off." Dan holds out his hands and Pana grudgingly gives up the food he hasn’t already wolfed down. "Do you know who’s behind us right now?"

"What?" Pana whirls around, reaching around in the hoodie he’s swimming in for his Glock.

"Nothing’s there, Pana. Except a brick wall. If you wanna go ahead and shoot that and ruin the job, feel free, though."

It’s not that Dan hates working with a partner, or that Pana isn’t a good partner who can usually follow his cues with a look. But usually isn’t enough if he doesn’t want Pana to end up like Ande: six feet under and all because he looked away a moment too soon. 

"Sorry, Daddy," Pana whispers, crestfallen. "I’ll pay better attention." 

Dan relents, but doesn’t want Pana to see him falter, though, ever, has to be the perfect Bad Man for Pana. 

They did roll out of a sound sleep twenty minutes ago at Liam’s call, Pana suckling Dan’s cock like he does sometimes when he falls asleep, too fucked out to finish giving head, his cold feet and legs entwined with Dan’s arms, warm breath on Dan’s pubic hair. And then the phone ringing at 4am and here they are, together, because Pana sat up in bed and determinedly dressed himself to accompany Dan on this one-man job.

(Dan hates sleeping naked but does it because he ends up naked anyway, Pana pulling insistently at his clothes until they’re skin to skin, chest hair to smooth silken chest, groin to groin, Pana’s chilly body melding itself into every nook of Dan’s body he can reach.)

"Don’t be sorry," Dan gruffs. "Be better." He looks at his watch. The meeting’s bound to break up soon. From his rifle’s sights Dan can see that Tobek’s guys are getting restless and Merrells’ guys more placating, with no resolution in sight. 

And Pana’s stomach growls again, and Dan thinks of the perfect thing to fill him up with.

Halfway in, hard and thrumming, leaking precum down Pana’s bobbing throat, Dan feels so focused he could take out the mark with his mind alone. He breathes in, breathes out, takes one long steady inhale when the wetness of Pana’s tongue tightens around his shaft, another when his hips move to follow the suddenly moving mark and Pana gags deliciously, gurgling and whining. 

"Fuuuuuck", Dan exhales carefully when his balls slap against Pana’s chin. There’s two marks, actually, Tobek’s most trusted advisor and Merrells’ protege. Dan can take them both out, take them all out, in less than than the thrumming of a tongue on his cock, but he waits, because perfect moments can’t be forced, perfect lessons present themselves without preamble, and perfect blowjobs deserve perfect endings.

Pana sucks Dan’s cock with wet hungered purpose, with need and greed and Dan’s eyes almost cross, almost, but when his balls tighten up and Pana swallows and swallows so smoothly under him Dan doesn’t miss a beat, inhales, exhales, makes both head-shots dead-center.

"So good," he tells Pana, who looks drunk on his cum, eyes at half-mast, stray white glob of Dan’s semen dribbling down his chin. "You did so good, baby."

"I wanna suck you off some more," Pana tells him, snuggling up to Dan’s chest, wriggling like a worm back into the curves of Dan’s body. And Dan is hot all over as if he’s wearing three wool coats, hot and light and latent with coiled-up sex and power, like he hasn’t killed enough tonight, can’t kill enough tonight.

"So damn good," Dan laughs. So good that if he believed in God he’d say that the Man Upstairs made him stop under that streetlight and pick up an insatiable nineteen year old with a gift for killing and for killing Dan’s heart.

They have time, maybe half an hour, before documents get shredded and the police get called.

Dan takes that time to pull down Pana’s jeans, ignore the whined complaint of the cold on his calfs and bend him over the smooth edge of the building, bunched up hoodie protecting Pana’s delicate bits, finds Pana still slippery and gaping from just hours ago, and himself still hard from the killing, the sniping out like a light of life, double-hard from double homicide.

And he doesn’t check his breaths, doesn’t inhale on the trigger squeeze, just grunts and thumps and Pana’s feet lift from the roof, but Dan’s got it, got those shrieks reined in with one hand, got one slim calf held down with the other, and Dan’s never letting go, never letting hips stop popping even when the sirens sound and it’s maybe two minutes if that until the cops figure out where the shots came from.

"Baby. Say it." And that’s the ultimate test of their partnership, when Dan takes his hand away from Pana’s mouth and fucks into that spasming loosened hole. "Just say it."

A beat. Just a beat, like Pana’s filling his lungs with the word.

“Daddy.”

Dan comes in uncontrollable streams, in rivers, in floods, and they get down the fire escape stairs (Dan carrying a limp and sated Pana most of the way) just as the faint sound of helicopters approaches.

*

All it takes is one hair’s breadth unspoken understanding and Dan remembers why he doesn’t just leave Pana lying alone in their bed when the 4am calls come.


End file.
